


Fair Game

by mimarie



Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-03
Updated: 2010-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimarie/pseuds/mimarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her phone wakes her. It's a text - from Jack. She blinks at it once, and then turns on the light, ignoring Rhys's complaints as she reaches for her jeans. Two minutes later, still hopping to pull her boots on, she kisses him, still reassuring him ("<em>No, love. It's probably nothing. No, no explosions. Yes, I'll let you know</em>") as she grabs her bag and <em>runs.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Fair Game

**Author's Note:**

>   
> **Spoilers/ Warnings :** Set between Season 2 and Children of Earth/ explicit sexual content and swearing  
>  **Beta:** Huge thanks to [](http://canaana.livejournal.com/profile)[**canaana**](http://canaana.livejournal.com/)  
>  **The Obligatory Disclaimer:** I own nothing but the happy space between my ears

  
Gwen's moving before the door's half open, her gun drawn, keeping low as she runs through the cage, not stopping until she reaches the cover of the stairs: If there's someone there, the last thing she needs is to give them a better target.

And then she waits. The siren fades after a moment, the blue flash following it what feels like an eternity later to leave the Hub in rippling darkness, what little light there is sliced through by stair risers, the unfamiliar silence filling with the gurgle and rush of the water tower. She waits, but there's no one there - there can't be; they'd have come after her by now - nothing to see and no voices, the only sign of life a pale, flickering glow in Jack's office. She's got no more idea what's going on, or where, than she had when Jack's text woke her (she's going to have words with him about that. Next time she has to placate her half-asleep husband at two in the morning, she'd like a little more to work with than " _Help, come alone,_ ") - and the siren just cost her any chance of surprising... whatever it is he needs help with. If it's here, anyway. Her only consolation is that Jack must know she's arrived now. If _he's_ here. And if he's not...

It's no good; she needs to get onto the system.

A slow sidle, a quick crawl and a good guess later, Ianto's spare laptop (fully charged, bless his organised heart) assures her that Jack's mobile is in the Hub. Which is weird enough (where _is_ he?), but it also insists that, prior to Cooper, G at 02:17, Harkness, J's arrival at 23:14 is the only in/out logged since Jones, I left at 20:04. While she's thinking about this, the system informs her that none of the alarms have been triggered, that there have been zero (0) phone calls to/from the land-line, that the rift is quiet, and (and why would she doubt it? She can't exactly check from under her desk) that the scanners are working perfectly. Then, just in case she's feeling cynical, it adds that the pterodactyl's tag is registering in her nest, and that the cells currently house three (3) Weevils (one tagged; Janet's having a sleepover), and the thing with the claws that it insists on calling " _?cat?_ " (1). The undeniable accuracy of this data, as far as she's concerned, only makes the subsequent confirmation that there are currently a grand total of two (2) human heat signatures in the Hub all the more confusing. She'll call it confusion, anyway. It's better than thinking about the alternative - because if Jack was here, alone, why didn't he just ring her? And why didn't he answer when she called him back?

She knows where to find him now though. The heat markers are clear.

The light in his office is a candle. It's been wedged into an empty whisky bottle, two half-filled glasses smearing paperwork with flickers of gold. Jack's coat is hanging on the rack, and she can't see him, but beyond the desk, the open hatch is glowing as warmly as his usual welcome.

It looks almost cosy, she decides, pushing a faint pang away with a firm _happily married, thank you,_ as she edges closer to the hatch. Two glasses; two people - but why her and not Ianto? Maybe something's happened and he wants to talk about it. Or maybe he was suddenly just desperate for her company. Or maybe...

Texting for help at two in the morning isn't exactly an invitation though, even coming from Jack, and she's not taking any chances. He's down there. And she knows that it might be a trap, that the heat scan might be rigged, that she should back off - call Ianto - but just because Jack can't stay dead, it doesn't mean he can't get hurt. He asked for her help; he could be dying down there. Right now. _Alone._

Just a little closer and she'll be able to see. She'll know what to do then.

It's bright down there, and all she can see at first are candles, lots of them: thick, half-burned stumps above the bed-head and on the edge of a shelf, fresh tapers dribbling wax on the base of a mirror…twenty or more bright flames combining to draw her gaze to the naked man on the bed.

It's Jack. She can't see much of his face - there's a dark, silky something tied flat across his eyes, and his elbows are shading his jaw - but it's definitely Jack. She'd know him anywhere. Arms raised above his head, the silver glint of old-style cuffs at his wrists is echoed by a duller shine, lower down his body. Her eyes slide straight to it. And she knows she shouldn't be looking at him - if this is a trap someone chose good bait - but it's fascinating. And of course she's seen a cock ring before. Just not in _use._

 _Like a bracelet on a newborn's arm_ , she thinks, and then closes her eyes, wishing the image away.

It doesn't work; instead another one joins it. One that's enough to send her down the ladder, gun stuffed into her waistband, squinting into the candlelight until she spots Jack's phone on the ledge at the head of his bed. It's between two candles, half buried in packets and tubes, a handful of cable ties and a silvery gleam that becomes a knife and a small key as she gets closer.

She's not stupid; she knows what's going on here - she's just not thinking about it. She doesn't _need_ to think about it. All she needs to do is check Jack's call log, and then she'll know if it's safe to go now, or if she needs to hide under her desk until Ianto's too busy doing ... that thing she's not thinking about … to notice her sneaking out.

And it's Jack's fault, of course, but she probably shouldn't be too hard on him. Apart from the bit where he woke her at two in the morning and made her run red lights all the way to the Hub because he can't work his phone when he's horny, anyway. Although, to be fair, she has done it herself - and _her_ only preoccupation was avoiding the CCTV on the Plass in order to smuggle a bag of Starbucks' muffins past Ianto (hindsight being what it is, she probably could have taken more care that her ultra-surreptitious request to keep Ianto busy until she'd found a plate and lit the candles went to 'Jack', and not 'All') - so considering what Jack was thinking about when he sent _his_ text...

So it _is_ a mistake. It has to be. Even if he only sent it to her. It's easy to press the wrong key. G's not that far from I, after all. Easy to get that wrong with all those candles reflecting off the screen. It's a mistake. He wouldn't assume - he wouldn't _dare..._

But she's a grown up, she tells herself. A _married woman,_ with not inconsiderable experience of naked men. Maybe not the one she's looking at right now, but so what? As the proud owner of two vibrators, several silk scarves, a strap-on, and a husband who's not afraid to let her use them on him (turnabout _is_ only fair play, after all), she's more than capable of dealing with this, whatever it is. And all right, so she's got naked-Jack burned into her retinas now (horny, blindfolded naked-Jack), an already-grumpy Rhys who's going to want to know what's got her all worked up (and he's cuffed. Are those _her_ cuffs?) before he'll help her work off a little tension (cuffed _and_ blindfolded _and_ horny - dear _god_ he looks edible), and a co-worker on his way to get kinky (he's wearing a fucking _cock ring_ ) - but that's fine. When all else fails, she's still got sarcasm.

 _"Sorry, wrong number,"_ might be a good place to start - but it'll have to wait, because Ianto only lives five minutes farther away from work than she does, and if he turns up now...

"I won't talk," Jack says as she reaches over him, "do what you want with me. But check my phone first. It rang." He shrugs, something like a smile washing over what she can see of his face. "I was a bit tied up."

She's there already. Settings, call log, all calls, folders... There: one sent text and one missed call, both clearly marked _Gwen_ \- which is a relief, one way or another, because she really doesn't want to explain what she's doing here to Ianto. Now, if she could think how to explain it to _Jack..._ If she knew his password she could let his voicemail break the ice for her ( _"I just got your text. You're not answering your... Yeah, right. Look - I'm on my way"_ ). But she doesn't, and she still can't think anything to say, so she reaches for the blindfold instead.

"No," he says when she starts to lift it, turning his head away. "Don't," he says, "please. I'm _here_ now. Just - "

He stops when she tugs the silk loose. Holding himself still, his lips parted, eyes closed, nothing moving but breath and blood. She's never seen him so _passive_. It seems almost a shame to break it, but even if he doesn't want to see who's doing the looking - even if he laughs and demands she call Ianto before sending her home to her sleeping husband - she needs to see his face when he sees that it's _her_.

Leaning closer, she watches him tense, his forehead creasing, his mouth tightening as a dark flicker of tongue wets his lips. He's expecting to be kissed now, she realises - and doing a very bad job of pretending to want it. She can't help wondering if he's always this unsubtle in bed, and then she pushes the thought away. Wanting an honest reaction from him is one thing - just one, just this once - but how seriously he takes his kink is none of her business.

She still wouldn't kiss him, even if it was. Not yet. Not and spoil such a good game. Which is all it is. Just a game. And she's not here to play. Not even if...

No. He wouldn't. Of course he wouldn't. He's a daft bastard, scaring the life out of her like that, making her heart thump so hard that she can still feel it, even though she knows he's all right now - but he wouldn't do that.

She still needs to make him look though. Just to be _sure_.

" _I got your text,_ " that's what she'll say. " _Hi, Jack. I got your text, what's up?_ " No. She can't say _that._ " _Hi, Jack, I got your text, and I thought - I wondered..._ " None of it quite works though, and in the end all that comes out is: "Was this what you needed me for?"

It's possible that she's seen him move faster, but only when someone's shooting.

He doesn't get far. That's probably the idea.

 _Well,_ she thinks, trying to smile at his startled gape, _that settles_ that _then_. It's no more than she was expecting; she knew he wasn't _her_ present, however nicely he's wrapped. But there's something else in his face now too. Something naked - _defenceless_ \- that dies almost as soon as it's born, washed away by his best cheesy grin. It was there though. She saw it, she _knows_ it.

"Gwen," he says, "wow. Well - "

"Are you talking?" She frowns at him. "I thought you weren't going to talk."

His eyes widen, a faint " _Oh..._ " escaping as she tries out a nonchalant shrug. He's shocked. _Jack_ is shocked - although whether it's by her being there or by what she just said, she's not sure. She's feeling pretty shocked herself, but it was the first thing she could think of, and it's obviously what he needed, because he's starting to smile again already; a blatant invitation covering the cracks in his armour as he shrugs back at her.

She should walk away, right now. Laugh at him while she unlocks the cuffs - if he's still down here in the morning she'll never hear the last of it - and go home. Get some more sleep. She made her choice - and Jack's nothing special. He's just another bloke. And yeah, he looks good, but he knows it. Seriously - _look_ at him...

Stretching long, his fingers laced through the bars of the bed-head, one of his eyebrows is rising over a smug grin that curves like a challenge. She ignores it as hard as she can, focussing on the cuffs circling his wrists instead. A moment to catch her breath and she lets her eyes follow smooth, well-muscled forearms and taut triceps down to his shoulders, sparsely-haired underarms, the bare planes of his chest. Lower then, over hollows and curves to his left hip and then out along his thigh - she's not avoiding anything, she's just taking the scenic route - ending up at a pair of well-turned ankles, each wearing a narrow black cable tie that attaches to the bottom of the bed. _Useful,_ she thinks, her gaze skimming up his right leg, only slowing when she reaches the smooth flesh of his belly, his navel -

His cock bobs at her and she looks up, tapping his lips when he opens them to speak.

"Not a word," she tells him. "Unless you were going to ask me to send that text on to your boyfriend, of course." And then she shrugs again, watching him lick his lips, watching him swallow.

He'll say something now. Of course he will. This is _their_ game; he knows the rules. And that's good, because the last thing she needs is to start anything with Jack. No matter how he looks at her. In _spite_ of how he looks at her. And not just because of Rhys, either; there's Ianto, too.

" _So,_ " she says, "you just say the word and I can get off home. Back to my nice normal life - with my husband, you know."

He's not taking his cue. She's feeding him the line and he's ignoring it. Just laying there, looking at her. Stripped naked -- all over. Just waiting.

"'Cause I'm married," she says. "And you've got a boyfriend. Nice bloke, friend of mine."

He's just staring at her. _Waiting._

"Right," she says, and then has to stop to swallow. It must be all the candles--her mouth is so dry. "Speak now or forever hold your peace," she says.

"Last chance," she says.

"Jack?" she says.

He stares at her a moment longer, and then closes his mouth firmly, shaking his head.

That's not right. He was supposed to help her then, to laugh at her - to _stop_ her - but his grin's long gone now, replaced by a hungry anticipation, shining out at her from wide, dark eyes. It suits him too well; she's going to have to kiss him if he keeps looking at her like that. Not that she will, of course. This isn't a kissing game. There's no kissing in this game at all - she'd be gone now if there was. No, this is the _other_ sort of game. Which, now she comes to think of it, means that it's more than possible (and she wouldn't swear to it, because Jack's staring at her, naked and... _naked,_ and it's a little distracting) that she's supposed to be saying something now. Something... inventive. Nothing too melodramatic - because she wouldn't want to kill the mood - and as for how she's _feeling..._

It's too much to think about, so she pulls the blindfold back down and touches him instead.

Chest first, and then his stomach, the shake in her hands easing on the way back up to his shoulders, heading back down his sides to stroke his thighs... It's easier than it ought to be, touching Jack. It always is, but he was dead the last time she saw him naked, and he's so very alive now. Hot and sleek, all his angles fleshed smooth, all his corners well-padded... He's generous all over - really, _everywhere_ \- but she's not going there yet, no matter how hard it is to keep her eyes off it.

He doesn't seem to mind though. He doesn't seem to mind what she does as long as she's touching him. And it doesn't make any difference anyway, because this is Jack, and Jack is naked: there is no neutral territory. Even letting her hand linger over his heart heats her belly, the scent of him rising, musky and hot, filling her head and her throat, the sound of breath and bedsprings echoing over the heartbeat in her ears.

The candles flicker when she moves, reflecting back and back from glass and metal, from chain-linked restraints and a dull silver shimmer, its faintly greasy gleam drawing her gaze along rigid flesh to where the ring's bedded in curly dark hair. It looks so hard there, that ring. So solid - inflexible - that she can't look at it without imagining how he got it there. How he must have stripped, touching himself while he lay back, sliding it over his half-hard cock. Twisting it until the notch was where he needed it and then stroking himself harder, filling it out. How he must have wished he'd cuffed his ankles first then, when he had to fix the cable-ties with it in place. How he'd have sent the text with one hand and half an eye, desperate to get the cuffs on before he could spoil his own game - how it would feel there, rubbing against her at the bottom of each thrust, his chest pounding under her hands, his mouth searching for hers -

She closes her eyes, bending to rest her cheek on his chest, listening to his heart as she finds her way by touch. Listening to his noises; following his reactions. She's playing him, just the way he wants. Bypassing his cock to stroke his chest and stomach, hips, thighs - a little closer, just a little, and he tenses. A little further and he gasps. A little to the left then, and -

She could make him come like this. Take the last shreds of his control and tease him until he's ready to explode. Make him fight to get free - make him _beg..._

It's not enough though. Even when that twinge in her stomach won't let her forget that it's not supposed to be _her_ doing this. She's not even supposed to be here.

She is though. She's playing the game. And they're never going to do this again, so...

He grunts when she strokes his cock, open-handed and slow. Not soft enough to tease, but not holding him either. He still doesn't move though, so she does it again. And then again, waiting until he gives in and pushes up, up against her hand before she grips. That's it then, he's moving. Pushing up and dropping down, heels and shoulders working, working his cock against her palm, slick, sweat-sticky flesh skidding between her fingers, sticking and sliding until she goes with his rhythm, going with it until he's shaking in her hands, gripping him tighter until he's riding every stroke out from tip to base; grinding down into the mattress then thrusting back up, grinding his arse against the ruck of sheets as if it can give him what he needs.

The twinge hits again then, tightening her stomach. He isn't Rhys and she's not Ianto. And she shouldn't be here anyway. If he'd got what he'd ordered, he'd be getting his arse greased by now. Held down, held in place by a long, solid body, groaning encouragement at the darkness beyond his blindfold. There'd be long, competent fingers stroking him open, leaving him panting at the _rip_ of the condom foil, a low voice telling him how he looks, spread wide and helpless in the candlelight. Ianto's voice; not hers. Ianto telling him how good it's going to be, having him cuffed to the bed while he fucks him. And it goes without saying that he won't come until Ianto says so - Jack does understand, doesn't he? It's not jewellery he's wearing there, however pretty-red and shiny it makes his cock. Yes, of course he _can_ come - he's very fond of Jack's cock, hasn't Jack noticed? He can come any time he wants, that's what that little notch in the ring's for. He's not going to though, not if he knows what's good for him. Not if he ever wants to do this again.

She's got her eyes closed, still stroking Jack's cock, feeling him move, but her head's full of Ianto's voice. Full of Ianto, stroking the ring around Jack's cock while he explains, slowly and calmly, how Jack's not going to come, not if he wants to be ridden. And he'll have to last through being fucked first, of course.

Ianto would tell him to be quiet then. He'd have to, because Jack would be begging. Begging to be fucked, until a hand stopped his mouth. " _Be quiet now,_ " Ianto would tell him: " _legs open, mouth_ shut." Unless he wants that filled first? No, Ianto wouldn't think so either. " _This is what you want,_ " he'd say. " _This is what you've been waiting for,_ " telling Jack how hot and tight he is as he's pushing into him, telling him how good it feels to fuck him in the heat and light of all those candles - how good he looks with his arse stretched wide, taking it all...

Jack groans when she stops, still trying to push into her hand as she lets go.

Okay, so maybe not actually a _candle_ \- they're all too thick or too thin anyway, and she's not even _thinking_ about hot wax - but this _is_ Jack's room; there's no way he's lacking for toys. And he _did_ provide condoms, so...

The first box she comes to has books in it, and the second. She puts the lids back on without digging; it doesn't feel right to pry. And then she opens the _third_ box -

"I'm going to fuck you," she tells him, amazed at how matter of fact she sounds as she chooses one plastic cock over another, slightly larger one. He still doesn't speak though, he just shudders at the quiet _rip_ , his hips tensing, his cock rising in anticipation. It's tempting, really, so very tempting to abandon the dildo and put the condom on _him_ instead, but... "No," she tells him, never more glad that he can't see her face. Drooling is _so_ unattractive. " _I'm_ going to fuck _you._ "

He's nodding before she can move, wriggling down the bed until the cuffs pull tight. He can't move his legs, and his arms are stretched too far already, but he's still trying to spread for her. Toes scrabbling at the wall, he pushes up until one of the shadows beneath him turns solid, the dark shine of plastic suddenly visible between his parted buttocks making so much sense that she has to bite her lip to stop herself laughing out loud as she lays the sheathed dildo aside. It's not funny, far from it. It's only the thought of how hard it would be to stop once she started that's been keeping her hand out of her knickers. And to see him like _this..._

The plug's buried deep, the shadowed pout of his flesh stretched tight around it, the flared base pressed hard up against him. She plucks at it experimentally, humming approval at the depth of his groan. That's a good noise, but there must be more to his repertoire. Something higher, maybe, a little more... _desperate_. Another try: it was good of him to provide a handle, but the whole crease of his arse is slicked shiny; it's too slippery to grip. She really doesn't want to use her nails, so she pushes it instead and then the noise he makes is _beautiful_ , a nonsense of whimpers and grunts accompanying another push and a twist, rising through broken vowels to a low, pleading wail, his cock straining into thin air, a pale bead of liquid oozing wetly from the slit.

It's irresistible. So she doesn't.

A single, long lap leaves him flat and panting, tension shuddering under her fingers and tongue. She does it again, slowly, and then again, licking up to his crown, licking into his slit and then twisting her body to lick down to the smooth metal of the ring, her fingertips sliding slowly between hard plastic and taut, hot flesh, knuckles following until the tight suck of his body starts to give. Not too much, she doesn't want to give him _too_ much, not yet, just enough that he rises with it, trying to follow her mouth and her hand at once, a confusion of desperate noises becoming a yell as she slides the plug back into him, watching him buck and then still, a stuttering breath hollowing his belly.

" _Gwen..._ "

He remembered her name. He deserves a reward for that.

He twitches when she wipes her hand clean on his thigh, and then again when the knife snicks open. Once more for luck when she cuts the first cable tie, and then he's flexing his toes, holding still when she tells him, letting her untangle the loose plastic strips, his calf muscles cording as she abandons the knife to stroke the creases from his ankles, his knees starting to rise.

"No," she tells him, and he tenses, still moving.

"Gwen," he says, " _please -_ "

" _No._ "

She strokes past his knee, a little firmer than before, until the pulse in his thigh trembles against her restraining palm; tension slowly unwinding into obedient immobility. He doesn't move when she strokes his belly, up over his chest to the tight lines of his jaw and then down again, slow and steady. Once around his navel; she watches his hips tense, his legs starting to shake as she strokes carefully around his cock with her thumb and forefinger, drawing it in outline on his belly before letting her fingertips creep over the smooth solidity of the ring.

"Does this need to come off?"

He doesn't answer. When she looks up his mouth is a tight line, nostrils flaring into shadows under the edge of the blindfold, in time with the hollow and rise of his chest.

"That's good," she says. "Very good - but I don't want it to hurt you; so you're going to tell me if it does." She strokes the ring again, circling the metal carefully, her hair curling over his stomach as she bends lower, making herself wait until his cock twitches, brushing against her lips, and then licks him, hard. He twitches again, a sharp breath catching, but he still doesn't move. He's well-trained; she'll have to remember that.

It doesn't mean he gets to win though.

"I hope you understand," she tells him, breathing hot, wet air over the head of his cock. "We're playing by _my_ rules now. If I want you in pain then I'll hurt you myself." Another lick becomes a suck, laboured breathing all she can hear over the pulse in her ears as a salt-sharp mouthful of rigid flesh swells briefly against her tongue. "And anyway..." Strangled and nasal, Jack's pant finally breaks in protest as she moves away, metal screeching against metal as he pulls against the cuffs, and then again when she clambers over him, only remembering her gun when it pokes her, dropping it on the floor as she straddles his thighs. "And _anyway,_ " she tells him, "I haven't even decided if I'm going to let you come, yet."

His cock is glistening, spit-slick against his belly, his chest rising erratically as his hips work under her, strong, solid muscle driving the seam of her jeans higher, wet flesh parting in welcome.

She's been trying to concentrate on him, but she can't just ignore it; she's _soaked._ Slick and slippery and far too empty to have such a lovely hard cock in front of her and not put it to use. That's what it's there for, after all. What _he's_ for, lying there, waiting to be taken and played with - to be used.

She drops her t-shirt on his chest, her bra a moment later, making sure it lands on his face. He sniffs at it hungrily, lips and teeth working until he's chewing it, breath whistling through bared teeth and wet lace, his moan of disappointment when she tugs it away twisting through her gut, scraping up guilt and turning it into anger. At him, maybe - or herself. She doesn't know. They're here, now, together: Just because she wants this as much as he does, it doesn't make it any less wrong.

"You just want to fuck," she says. It sounds like an accusation and she's pretty sure it is. "You sent out for cock and got cunt instead, and you don't care."

"Yes," he says. "No. _Gwen..._ "

"Did I say you could talk?" Fingers pressed to his lips, she crawls up and over his body, the heat and hardness of him sharpening wet knickers into a ridge of sodden cotton. His mouth opens, his tongue tasting busily, breath rushing cold over wet knuckles. It feels good - but it could be so much better... "But maybe you need some help with that too," she tells him, stroking his tongue with a fingertip and then pulling it away to watch him stretch blindly towards it.

She could kiss him now. He looks like he'd like that - like he wants it - his lips searching, pleading wordlessly, beautifully desperate, his chest hefting under her stomach as she leans forward, his groan burring deliciously between her breasts. "Maybe if I gave you something else to do with your mouth..."

He doesn't hesitate - which is good, because the only threat she's got left is _"Don't stop."_ Or maybe _"Oh my god, suck that_ harder" - because the world's gone away, nothing left but his mouth. _Jack's_ mouth - dry lips tensed tight from craning up between his tethered arms, working wetly, lapping and sucking - biting - hungry suction towing her closer, making her shiver and swear, making her pull against the shriek of cramped thigh muscles, needing both her hands to feed him both nipples at once, grinding down against the wet drag of her knickers.

And she's thinking it, of course she's thinking it, but she'd have to get off him to get her jeans off, and she doesn't want to _stop._

Apparently Jack doesn't either. Knees rising behind her, his hips follow to lift her, shunting her forward and stealing her balance, forcing her to catch herself or land on his face. It still isn't a bad angle, but he can only get one nipple at a time that way. Maybe if she can hold herself on one arm and then _lean..._ He catches on quickly; his body braced, making a slope from his knees to the set of his jaw, hot breath alternating with icy inhalations until the only direction that makes sense is _closer._ Where else would she go? He's taken everything. Stealing everything, every sense and sensation but the pull connecting her nipples, amplifying her pulse until it throbs through every nerve-ending in her body, dissolving her one lick at a time, one long, slow suck - one _bite_ -

He freezes at her yelp, legs dropping slowly behind her, a soft, wet tongue slathering apologetic-sounding murmurs over his mouthful of breast.

It's too late now though; he's broken the spell - she's sussed him. He almost took over then, and she's not having that.

It isn't easy persuading herself to move; harder still to watch him try and follow her, his mouth open, his back arching and bowing; almost impossible to reach behind her instead of straight down - but she's not giving in now. The angle's awkward, her unsupported lean leaving her open to every buck and grind, making her miss and start again as she gropes between his thighs, feeling along the curve of his arse until her fingertips slide over the base of the plug. His buttons are still working; one press and he changes direction with a grunt, lifting his legs again, spreading them wide; giving up control as easily as he tried to take it. She still can't get a decent grip though, and so she hooks her nails under the flare of the base instead, tugging it gently as she strokes him with her thumb. Up, over tensed, urgent flesh and into coarse hair; back down, pressing and stroking, following gasps - she'll know it when she finds it - stroking and pressing until his breath catches and his hips jolt under her.

When she looks back his mouth is an O; open - inviting - his lower lip curling to jut in frustration, strands of sweat-damp fringe scoring grids across the lines on his forehead as she slides, slowly and deliberately, across his body, finding the floor with one foot and then the other - slowly now, careful - trying to tell herself that her legs aren't shaking when she stands.

She doesn't look at him while she strips. It's easier like that. And when she reaches for a condom, she's too busy concentrating on not letting her shaking hands knock the candles over to look at him anyway.

It's not that she's nervous. What's to be nervous about? They're going to have sex, that's all. Just what the Captain ordered: one good-as-anonymous fuck. And that's good. _Sensible._ She can stop wondering what-if and how when they've had sex, because she'll know. They'll both know. All they've got to do is play the game - have sex - and then he can stop looking at her that way he does and she can stop wanting him to.

"Gwen?" He's trying not to pant, tugging at the cuffs, bared teeth gleaming under spit-wet lips. "Gwen, _please,_ " he says, shoving himself upwards until the blindfold pulls tight, his heels braced into the bed, another _"please_ " getting caught in the gust of his groan when she grips his cock. He stops, holding there, but his thighs are shaking and she barely has to push to make him lie back down, watching her hands move into the familiar pinch-and-roll manoeuvre as if she's miles away, watching someone else gift-wrap Jack's cock from beyond her own personal pink haze. Those aren't _her_ hands. She's not even there. She's too busy watching that pale trickle seep along the creases of his foreskin, sticking the condom to the bare head of his cock; noting how tight and high his balls are, and the little noises he makes when she strokes them - watching the muscles flexing in his thighs...

"Gwen?" His voice is cracking now. It's beautiful - desperate. "Please," he says, "Gwen, just - _say_ something."

She doesn't answer. She doesn't want to talk, she wants to _fuck._ That's all.

" _Gwen -_ "

"One more word." She can't look at him. Getting the words out is hard enough. "Just one - _one_ more..."

Maybe she should gag him, too. She might stop thinking about kissing him then. She could concentrate on getting off; getting him off - getting it over with and getting home - working out how to pretend this never happened.

It's sex, that's all. Why would it be more? She doesn't love him. She can't. Not _Jack._ She just wants him. That's all it is. She's horny - a stupid horny slut who doesn't deserve the wonderful man she's got at home. And there's Ianto, too. Her friend Ianto. Just like Jack's her friend.

 _Just like Owen was?_

It's too late for that. And it doesn't matter anyway, because the condom's on now - her hands know what her body wants, even if her brain's protesting - and she's clambering back over him. The prickle of hairs against her bare backside makes her shiver, and then there are knees rising behind her, tipping her forward until she's sitting on his cock. Sitting and sliding, spread wide along the length of him, his condom-wrapped glory pressed ridge-like in the valley of her labia as he pushes her again. Thighs up her back, knees nudging her shoulder blades, and then higher still, groaning almost as loud as the bed, his stomach tensed hard against hers as he folds himself in half, pushing her closer to his searching mouth. She lets him do it, turning her cheek to his lips as she's stroking his shoulders and arms, thighs tensed to stop her moving as another kiss smears its way across her jaw. She strokes his wrists around the cuffs, strokes his chest and down his side, reaching behind her to feel the tremble in his thighs, his hips and back. She needs to move, but she doesn't want to stop touching - how is she supposed to stop _touching?_ \- all that muscle and skin, all that _Jack..._

She's got to be strong though. She knows what she's here for. She's just got to find the words.

"I'm going to use you," she tells him. "You think you're in charge, but I'm going to ride your cock until I come; take what I want - use your body. Your mouth and your cock. I'll do whatever I want with you, and then leave you here, begging me to let you come. And I might - but only if you do everything I tell you, _everything,_ right? And then… then..." It's no good; she can't do it like this. She can't say what she needs to if she can't see his face - if he can't see hers -

Jack's eyes are wide open when she pulls the blindfold loose, dark silk catching between his head and raised arms, falling back against his pillow like a halo gone wrong.

"I'm not you," she tells him. "Or Ianto. And I love Rhys, I really do, but _you_ \- Jack - and all this, all _this..._ "

He still doesn't speak, and he doesn't try and move. He doesn't even look down; not at her body, or the place where they're so very nearly joined. He just stares at her.

"Jack," she says, "Jack..." She's still in control; still holding tight to the thought, but she can't stop the words slipping away. Because he's there. He's right there, so close she could kiss him, just waiting for her to take what she needs. What isn't hers and never can be. And that's the point, isn't it? This was never what she wanted, not from him.

Not like this.

"It's just, I thought..." She closes her eyes when he kisses her, touches her forehead to his; tries again. "When your text came, I thought you were hurt. I thought you _needed_ me. Jack - "

"I do." Another kiss finds her mouth. And then another. "I _do,_ " he says, "Gwen, darlin' - "

" _No._ " He can't say that. He doesn't mean it. He doesn't _understand._ "Not like this. I don't mean like _this._ Please, Jack, I know I shouldn't be here. I should've gone, but - just - "

And then she's kissing him. She didn't mean to be kissing him but his mouth is right there and he's kissing her back, moving under her, making her move to follow him and then coming back harder, kissing her harder as he tenses, pulling and shifting, kisses flavoured with frustration sending her heart pounding, her ears ringing, the sound pained and metallic. She doesn't care. It doesn't matter, not now she's kissing him. Tongue-fucking his mouth, biting and sucking, kissing him through every buck and writhe, every slip-slide of slick, swollen flesh, every creak and squeak and judder. It's wrong, awful - _terrible_ \- but she's as high on this as he is; his desperation as delicious as his body moving under her; his chest heaving, his elbows shaking against her collarbones and jaw, his mouth growing hard as a sudden shrill squeal cuts off with a _snap._

" _Yes,_ " he says. "God, _Gwen..._ " His voice cracks, his face creasing, chest heaving for breath. "You're right," he says. "You are. I _know._ " Another deep breath, and then he stills; tension trembling through his hips, his chest barely moving under her. "And I should let you go," he says, softly now, quiet and clear. His eyes are clear too. Close and clear and deep, his heart pounding through her like the smile they can't hide. "But I can't," he says. "And I won't. Not now I know. _Gwen -_ "

Candlelight catches as he kisses her again, a glimpse of twisted metal glinting above her head, and then she's moving, turned by arms that fold down and around her, hands still joined at the wrist dragging her down the bed, safely away from the broken spars. When he moves over her, the hard edges of the cuffs dig into her shoulder blades, his cock pulling hairs as it scrapes across her clit. He swallows her groan, panting kisses into her mouth until she wraps her arms around him, pushing up when she holds him with her legs too, taking his weight on his elbows and then kissing her again. Again and again. Gathering her to him, fierce and wonderful, kissing and kissing her until they're moving, both of them together - naked, together - moving together until the head of his cock fills that first, delicious inch, his hips tensing and jerking, giving her more with every shudder. Giving her everything, until the whole, solid length of him is moving inside her. His breath and his body, his blood and his flesh. Giving her more and taking everything he can.

  



End file.
